


Annunciation

by queendromeda



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Dark, Gen, Inspired by Hannibal, Kidnapping, Murder is NOT a Healthy Flirting Method, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 19:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14700480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendromeda/pseuds/queendromeda
Summary: "You really are something, Bruce." Jeremiah sighed, "I suppose you want me to spare your butler."It wasn't a question, not really, but Bruce, his head still tilted up unnaturally where Jeremiah left him, stared blearily into his eyes and said the most damning thing he could. "Please."And his voice is, really, barely more than a breath of air, but, with it, something between them shudders.





	Annunciation

**Author's Note:**

> I think the tags on this make it sound really dark — and, yeah, okay, the shoe fits — but I'd say it's pretty canon compliant when it comes to how creepy Jeremiah is when it comes to Bruce. To clarify, in case your worried, Jeremiah doesn't do anything that seems outside his canon boundaries. 
> 
> I think if done well, they could have an interesting relationship dynamic (maybe in an alternate universe where Bruce is a villain — now there's an idea), but this isn't a story putting Bruce & Jeremiah together in a romantic sense. In the context of this story, as well as where the show left us, that would be extremely unhealthy and I don't want to touch that with a seven-foot pole.

Bruce was tied up and Jeremiah was pointing a gun at him. No. Wait. Not at him, not anymore, but at Alfred who tried to sneak in behind him. He wanted to call out, to draw his attention away from his butler, who was weaponless and looked like he'd went up against a meat grinder and lost, but he was still groggy from whatever drug he'd be dosed with. When the gun was on him he could control that situation. He knew that Jeremiah wouldn't shoot him. He _liked_ Bruce. He wanted something to come from his obsession, and if Bruce was dead, there was nothing he could get.

That didn't mean he couldn't hurt Bruce in other ways, though. He liked Bruce, sure, but the people he cared about? They were distractions. Obstacles to knock off the playing field piece by piece.

Selina was in a coma because of him. She might not ever walk again. Jim Gordon was missing, presumed dead, and this time there were no minions of Nygma's left around to rescue him from the execution Jeremiah had planned. Lucius was dead — he'd been blown up with about half of Wayne Enterprises R&D Department when Jeremiah decided he needed some set of blueprints his engineers had been working on.

And Alfred was standing in his line of sight, with a gun leveled at him.

And in that moment he was back in Jeremiah's madhouse. Alfred was screaming screaming _screaming_ and he couldn't breathe and he saw him splattered out on the concrete floor again, and it hadn't really been him. He knows that. _Logically._ But he couldn't separate reality from what the toxin made him see, even now, even though he knew Alfred was alive and not dead and broken, laying out like the most macabre snow angel and—

_And_ Jeremiah was saying something, Bruce couldn't make out what, but there was an edge of irony in his voice, and then he's clicking the safety off on his gun, and Bruce can't breathe.

All he can think is: _no no no no no not again not again please not again please please_.

He's tired. God, he's so tired, and he can't think straight, but Jeremiah is going to shoot Alfred and he can't let that happen. He refuses to imagine a world where Alfred's dead. He'd lived in that world, however briefly, and doesn't think he could handle it twice.

His mouth is dry and his tongue feels too big and too clumsy to properly make words, but he needs to do something, anything, and his lips are moving, he thinks, but he can't tell because his entire face is numb and he just needs to make a sound, needs to draw Jeremiah's attention away from his awful monologue and away from Alfred.

" _Juh_ —" he manages.

Jeremiah's shoulders tense, hardly noticeable, and he turned his head slightly. Just enough to look at where Bruce is sitting, tied to a leather armchair. "Patience, Bruce, is a virtue. I'll be with you momentarily, I promise."

A smile was starting to curl over his lips when he said _promise_ like he was saying something more, offering something more, but, for the life of him, Bruce couldn't puzzle through whatever ulterior motive Jeremiah had. He could hardly focus on his face when he spoke, blurred as it was in his drugged state.

He tried again.

"Jer- _Jeremiah_." Coherent speech was coming easier to him now. "Jeremiah. _Jeremiah_."

There was something desperate about the way he was saying his name. Something that was awful and broken and begging, and a distant part of his mind hated him for it, but he needed to get his attention. He needed him to point the gun somewhere else, anywhere but on Alfred.

Jeremiah lowered the gun with a click of his tongue, looking moderately put-upon. With his free hand, he made a lazy gesture towards Alfred, and two of his hench-people came from the shadowy corners of the room, hauling Alfred by his arms, and dragging him back against the wall that was still within Bruce's spotted eyesight.

"You are quite a needy thing, aren't you?" Jeremiah asked, pushing his gun somewhere within the folds of his overcoat. He was walking towards Bruce slowly, like a predator approaching his prey.

Bruce didn't say anything. He hadn't planned this far ahead. He just needed to get Jeremiah to focus his attention away from Alfred, and he did that, but now, tied up as he was, there was little else he could do. His mind was still spinning, and his thoughts felt like they were lagging, always a second behind on the uptake.  Jeremiah was rapidly filling his entire range of vision, and Bruce had to tilt his head up, his neck aching in protest, to see his face.

Looking up at him, all he could say was, "Jeremiah."

His voice was quieter now, but no less desperate and he  _hated_ that. Hated the position he was placed in. Hated him.

There was an odd look in Jeremiah's eyes, one that Bruce didn't like —  but it wasn't like he could do much about that — and he reached one of his leather-clad hands out to grab Bruce's jaw, tilting his head up higher. His grasp was surprisingly light like he was hesitant to touch him, and Bruce froze. The gloves he wore were high quality, soft, and Jeremiah was stroking his thumb back and forth over his jawline. His hands were warm and too gentle and Bruce couldn't _think_.

"You really are something, Bruce." Jeremiah sighed, dropping his hand. Bruce could still feel them, though, imagined that he always would, in some phantom reminder that the monster in front of him did have a capacity for gentleness. Somewhere below the rush in his ears, Bruce thinks he can hear Alfred shouting, but it sounded distant, too distant to pay attention to, and then Jeremiah's speaking again. "I suppose you want me to spare your butler."

It wasn't a question, not really, but Bruce, his head still tilted up unnaturally where Jeremiah left him, stared blearily into his eyes and said the most damning thing he could. "Please."

And his voice is, really, barely more than a breath of air, but, with it, something between them shudders.

A line was crossed somewhere and Bruce thinks he should care, but he also thinks that he doesn't have the capacity to anymore. There has to be a point where you've reached your quota of things to feel in a lifetime before your emotions run dry, and he's exceeded in. He's _done_. And, really, he knows himself. He knows his pride. He knows that asking Jeremiah nicely, saying _please_ , is pathetic, but he's lost so much these past few days, so much at Jeremiah's hands, that he knows he can't risk Alfred. If he loses him then he might as well lose himself also.

And Jeremiah froze. If he'd been in front of anyone other than Bruce, no one would notice. But Bruce, he knows Jeremiah — _knew_ Jeremiah — and he can tell that he's rattled. That Bruce has, once again, done something unexpected, throwing his plans askew.

Then, as quickly as turning on a light, he's back to himself. Poise and confident, and whatever softness that was in him, however short-lived, was replaced by cruelty. He drops a hand on top of Bruce's greasy hair, running his fingers through it once, twice, three times, before he tightens his hold and tugs just enough to prove that he's calling the shots. As if Bruce couldn't figure that out from where he was tied up and at his mercy.

He sounds careful, maybe even coaxing, when he says, "And what would you give me in return? It's nothing personal, you see, but your manservant lacked a certain delicate care in his treatment of me, last I saw him, and I would be loathe to let such a discourtesy stand." He gestured to his swollen eye, as he spoke.

The words ran over him like water. His focus wavered. Bruce could hardly pay attention to anything except for the shouting in the background that had to have been Alfred, who else would it be? And he can't tell if he's being hurt or if he's shouting for Bruce, trying to get his attention, and suddenly everything's pressing down on him, and it's all too much and—

Jeremiah yanks his head up, his nails digging into skin, and Bruce hisses despite himself. It was a warning, he knew. A reminder that he needs to focus his attention on Jeremiah and Jeremiah alone.

"What would you give me for your manservant's life?" He repeats, his face lowering closer to Bruce's. His eyes were startlingly clear. Too clear to be insane. Jeremiah clung to the last strands of his sanity like they were the only things keeping him from spiraling out of control like Jerome had. Maybe they were.

There was a warning in his eyes, and Bruce, the echoes of Alfred's shouting still ringing through his ears, had to clamp down on the automatic answer of _"anything"_ that nearly escaped him.

Instead, he grounds out, gathering all the anger that he can summon, "What do you want?"

It was an infinitely better response than "anything," but Bruce doesn't like the look that Jeremiah gave him now. It was almost hungry. He let go of his hair but stayed towering over him, as if peering into his eyes would help reveal a secret that only he had to know the answer to. Then he straightened up and started to pace, still blocking Alfred from view. His movements were edging towards frantic like there was a buzzing excitement bound up in his limbs.

"What do I want? Nothing that could, or would, easily give me at this moment. But, perhaps… Yes, perhaps you wouldn't mind doing me a favor?"

And the look in his eyes was eerily similar to the one he had earlier when he was holding his jaw, back to the familiar illusion of gentleness. Bruce forced himself not to look away from him. "What is it?"

"Does it matter what it is if it will save your butler?"

Alfred wasn't shouting anymore. He hadn't been for awhile, and that couldn't have been a good sign. Jeremiah was still blocking his sight from anything that wasn't him, and he had his awful, mocking half-smile smile painted across his lips again like he knew that Bruce wouldn't refuse.

"No. It doesn't." Bruce said. The words tasted bitter.

His smile widened horribly with his agreement. "You are truly something special, Bruce. I don't make statements like that lightly, so please believe me when I say that."

Jeremiah moved closer to him again, standing over him for a moment with his hands outstretched like he meant to touch his head again. Instead, he dropped them to his side, and then lowered himself to his knees. Bruce eyed him warily, tensing when he dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a familiar knife — Jerome's knife. The cemetery knife. If any blade was cursed it was that one — but all he did was slide it through the ropes that bound his ankles.

Methodically, he moved higher up slowly cutting through every rope that he used to tie Bruce to the chair until he was standing again, curled forward over him, his hair grazing Bruce's forehead, as he cut the last set.

He looked up, and Bruce swallowed. Jeremiah was too close to comfort, and he should have done something to get away then. Should have pushed him away, done anything, but while his mind was clearer now, his body still felt constricted. Sluggish. Before he could even finish considering making an escape attempt, that awful knife was pressed against his throat, and the familiar touch of cool metal stopped him in his tracks.

"Please don't try anything, Bruce. Alfred's all the way across the room and my people can be a tad trigger happy."

That was a threat.

The knife was against his throat, the edge barely glancing over his skin, hardly more than a tickle, really, but it was Alfred who was in danger. Not him. Never him when it came to Jeremiah. Even with a knife against his throat, he was safe. How disconcerting.

Jeremiah had very steady hands, Bruce noticed absently, trying to focus anywhere other than on his face which was still far too close. He was still curled over Bruce, not moving from where he'd been when cutting the ropes. Their noses were almost touching. He could feel his breath on his face, minty like he swallowed a tin of Altoids, and he could feel his hair, a few stray pieces falling out of line, into disarray, skimming over his forehead. He wasn't blinking. He was just staring into Bruce's eyes, as he seemed fond of doing, and he kept staring until Bruce met his gaze, at which point he smiled, just a faint quirk of his lips, and stepped back, taking the knife away from his throat, but still holding it loosely in one hand.

Bruce sat still, unsure about what exactly was expected of him, and not wanting to give Jeremiah any reason to break their tentative deal.

He sighed. " _B_ _ruce_. While this display of hesitance is charming, you don't need to be so worried. Stand up."

Bruce did not feel any less worried but dug his hands into the firm leather arms of the chair he'd been contained to, and pushed himself up, slowly. The drugs were still in his system, and his movements were far more disjointed than usual. He let go of the arms, managed to stumble a few steps forward, and, almost immediately, fell.

Or would have if Jeremiah hadn't materialized by his side. He wrapped an arm around him, pulling him tightly against him. He was surprisingly warm, and for a moment, Bruce felt himself relax. Then he snapped back to himself. If not for the drugs, Bruce would have been able to break out of the hold, but, being as out of it as he was, Jeremiah was too strong. He'd obviously anticipated Bruce's inability to support himself fully.

Something deep inside of him rolled over in anger. He hated being helpless. Pressed against Jeremiah's side, slowly being moved across the open room, closer and closer to where Alfred was slouched against a wall, he felt small again. Like he was that twelve-year-old boy in that alley in the Narrows with his parent's blood was all over his hands again. He hated it. Hated Jeremiah. Hated Gotham. The mantra of _do it for Alfred, do it for Alfred, do it for Alfred_ rang through his head, grounding him.

Together, Jeremiah steering Bruce along, they made it across the room. Alfred was hanging against the wall, his hands tied over his head, and a makeshift gag stuffed into his mouth, which helped explain his sudden silence, earlier. He looked bruised and battered, but he was alive. That was all that really mattered at that moment.

As if he could sense eyes on him, he popped open a swelling eye, and when he saw Bruce and noticed the arm slung across his waist, and the way Jeremiah tucked him against himself, he made a noise that, while muffled, was clearly angry, and began to tug frantically on the ropes that bound his wrists. The skin was already chafed, and Bruce wanted to reach out and stop him, show him that he was fine, but Jeremiah's fingers dug into the soft skin under his ribs, and he froze.

He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and, with the arm that wasn't supporting Bruce, used his knife to gesture at Alfred as he spoke. "Calm yourself, Mr. Pennyworth. Bruce is perfectly fine, just a bit lethargic from the sedative he was given earlier."

That did nothing to calm Alfred, who turned, if possible, even redder, but Jeremiah had already turned away from him, and looked, instead, towards Bruce. "I know that my favor will be hard for you to accept, but understand that should you refuse, I'll take this knife," he lifted it in his hand as if to clarify, "and I'll use it to cut his heart out."

Everything stilled. Bruce couldn't focus on anything, except for the growing ringing in his ears, and dimly he registered Alfred struggling again, but he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could scarcely comprehend what Jeremiah was promising to do and—

The arm around his waist tightened again.

It felt like a cage.

"Breathe, Bruce. _Breathe_. I'm not telling you that to be cruel. I just need you to fully understand the stakes. Are you with me?"

He was shaking. Maybe. Probably. He couldn't tell. He felt like he should be. And all he could think was _No. I'll never be with you. I'd rather die. I hate you I hate you I hate you_ —

"What do you need me to do?"

Jeremiah sighed again, more pleased than exasperated, and slowly pulled himself away from Bruce, still keeping him steady, but moving behind him. "I need help cleaning up. See, I've cycled through sycophants ever since the ones I… _liberated_ from Jerome went up in smoke. They're so easy to play with but so quick to break. An awful lot like dogs when you think about it. And when a dog gets too mangy the best thing to do is to put it down, don't you think?"

Bruce felt understanding slowly roll over him, but pushed past it, refused to acknowledge it, because surely,  _surely_ , he was misinterpreting what Jeremiah was saying. "Jeremiah… Jeremiah, I don't—"

"You do," and there was something soft in Jeremiah's voice again. Something horrible and twisted, but soft. "I'm going to had you this knife." Again he raised it as if he needed to see to understand. "And you are going to kill her for me."

_Her_ happened to be the hench-person on the left side of Alfred. She didn't even have a reaction to being marked for death. She just stared blankly ahead, her brown eyes dull and lifeless. Broken, beaten dogs indeed. Bruce looked at her, tried to imagine her dead, tried to imagine killing her, her blood staining his hands, and couldn't. It was unthinkable.

Beside her, Alfred began to make angry noises again, but Bruce didn't dare look at him. He didn't even want to imagine what the look in his eyes would be. He wondered if this had been Jeremiah's plan all along. To offer him a sacrificial lamb. To nudge open the door the darkness they both knew was inside of him. He must have known that he would have refused to do such a thing. He must have known he'd never even consider taking the knife.

He would never consider taking the knife in an ordinary situation.

With Alfred's life on the line, things were different. Bruce had killed Alfred once before. Felt his blood stain his hands and held him as he died, and he promised himself he'd never be the cause of a second death. If there was anyone he'd do this for it would be Alfred.

Jeremiah made an antsy movement like he was impatient about the fact that Bruce was taking time to process the situation he'd found himself in. Before he could say anything, make any more threats, Bruce held out his hand. He didn't even have to look behind him to know that Jeremiah was wearing a self-satisfied smile, he was projecting it out, and Alfred made a noise not dissimilar to a bull's roar.

Holding the knife, he felt like he was losing something. Like he'd given a part of himself away that he'd never back, and he'd yet to commit any crime.

He stumbled forward, closer to the hench-person, and as he moved, he could feel Jeremiah ghosting his steps behind him, his hands on his shoulders, pushing him along even now. His breath was warm on his neck. Bruce felt detached. Floating. Separate entirely from the situation at hand. It was like he was watching this play out from somewhere else, over a grainy television feed. This wasn't real life, surely. This was some gritty T.V. show that made its money in brutality. This wasn't his life. This wasn't him.

This wasn't him. This wasn't him. This wasn't him.

And he raised the knife. Pressed the tip of it against her orange sweater, knowing if he pushed it in there it would be as quick a death as he could manage and—

He couldn't move.

He couldn't make himself move the knife.

He couldn't do this. _God,_  he couldn't do this. His hands shook.

Jeremiah made a shushing sound close to his ear, like he was trying to calm him down, and he reached one gloved hand out to grasp his elbow, steadying Bruce's arm, and the other reached up to cup his neck, his fingers stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, and Alfred was making frantic noises beside him, but he couldn't make himself look away from the woman in front of him, with her empty eyes, and the knife he was holding pressed to her chest.

"Bruce," and his name came out of Jeremiah's mouth as a whisper, like he was some precious, holy thing, and it made the emptiness Bruce was feeling clench tighter around him. "You're doing wonderfully. You just need a little… _push_ —"

The hand on his elbow tightened, and, with no resistance from Bruce, guided his hand forward, guided the knife in Bruce's hand into the woman's chest, guided Bruce like he was something dangerous, something barbed and deadly.

There was blood on his hand. There was a knife in his hand. The woman fell away from him, sliding down the wall, onto the floor. A marionette with her strings cut. And the knife was still in his hand. And her blood was on his hand, still warm. He killed her. And Jeremiah was still holding his elbow, still holding his neck. Steadying him. And he killed her.

The knife fell from his fingers. He was boneless, suddenly. He stumbled back. He needed to get away, needed to be anywhere else, needed to run his hands underwater and scrub scrub _scrub_ until his hands were raw and her blood was gone. He wanted to turn his head away from her, but Jeremiah kept him in place, forcing him to see her, to see what he'd done, and when he stumbled back, ready to spiral back into nothingness, Jeremiah engulfed him.

"Look at her, Bruce. Look at what you can do. Look at what you're capable of if you only apply yourself. Isn't it beautiful?"

And Bruce was shaking like a leaf in Jeremiah's arms, and he couldn't look away from her if he wanted to, nameless and pathetic in death as she was in life after Jeremiah was through with her, and the arms around him were warm. And he hated him. But he couldn't think, not clearly, not coherently. There was blood all over his hands.

So he repeated, softly, dumbly, not really taking anything in at all, "Beautiful."

Jeremiah made another shushing noise, a half-hearted attempt at calming him, and ran his fingers through Bruce's hair, suddenly gentle as if he hadn't just used him like a loaded gun. " _Oh_ ," he sighed again, sounding deliriously happy, "You are magnificent, Bruce. This is all that I wanted for you… do you see now?"

_Do you see now_?

The question echoed in his head.

He couldn't see anything but the dead woman at his feet. The knife he'd used laying next to her body. Her blood forming a puddle, staining the soles of his shoes. Her blood staining his hands. No. Wait. It went deeper than that. He felt like her blood was seeping into him, staining something more substantial, more breakable. If people had souls than his would be painted red.

His world felt fractured. Hazy. Everything was tilted on its axis.

_Did he see now?_

He wasn't sure.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to talk to me about anything Gotham related I'm @brucejeremiah on Tumblr. 
> 
> As always feedback is highly appreciated!


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